The Foresight Trial
by Heidi Gamgee
Summary: Radar senses a deluge of wounded on the way and Hawkeye's operation on Colonel Lacey doesn't go as planned. Combines elements from Preventative Medicine and Fallen Idol.
1. Chapter 1

**The Foresight Trial**

CAUTION: THIS STORY CONTAINS GRITTY SCENES OF WAR

That aside, this is an AU story, taking elements from two MASH episodes: "Preventative Medicine" and "Fallen Idol." It also incorporates themes from the song **In The Air Tonight** by Phil Collins. Disclaimer: I don't own MASH or the characters, I'm just borrowing them for a little while.

* * *

It was a cold Korean night, quiet and lonely, with an aching, mourning wind flowing through the camp. Radar O'Reilly watched dead leaves swirl and scrape close to the ground, his head bowed. The air haunted him with its chilling portent, flooding him with tense unease like ice water through a broken hull. Like the Sea of Japan into a wreaked airplane. There was no use denying it, he could feel it coming.

Foresight, that's what they called it. His Mom used to tell him he had a gift, but it was more of a curse here. He didn't like waiting for wounded. He was a storm-chaser, and each deluge was just a prelude to the Ultimate disaster he always knew would sneak up on him.

It was coming tonight.

His skin tingled and he shivered. He heard the soft rumble of distant shelling. He had been waiting for this moment all his life—the moment when he knew without a shred of doubt that something overwhelming, something disastrous and terrible was going to happen. Within the next twenty-four hours, Radar was sure they were going to get more wounded than they had ever seen. So many wounded that soldiers would die waiting to get into the OR. So many that the surgeons wouldn't have time to do things delicately—in a deluge like this, there would be amputations rather than careful resections.

He picked up his teddy bear and tucked it under his arm as he wandered around the compound. Should he tell anyone? It would help if they could prepare for the mess in advance—they had heeded his "unofficial" casualty predictions before. He just hated being the bearer of bad news. _I have a message…._

"Hey, kid, what's the matter? You nearly ran into me!" Klinger snapped, hastening to re-adjust the stack of objects he was balancing on his head. He was trying to break a record, so far keeping a bedpan, three books, four wineglasses, and a syringe teetering above him.

"Listen, Klinger," Radar began, staring off into space, "can you do something for me?"

"Does it look like I've got something better to do? Shoot."

"We're getting wounded. We gotta make sure we've got lots of blood and stuff."

There was a crash as Klinger dropped his MASH record onto the ground. The wineglasses shattered and Klinger kicked the bedpan into the road. "I didn't hear anything about wounded."

"I know. I'm telling you. Just make sure we're ready. Maybe you shouldn't tell anyone."

"Why?"

Radar helped him gather the broken glass. "As long as we're ready, we better let everyone rest, you know, relax for a little while. You can't relax when you're waiting for wounded."

"Right. You're really something, kid. I'll go see what I can do."

"Thanks."

* * *

Radar quietly slid into Post Op, walking like a ghost down the aisle. There were only three patients, and they were sound asleep; the lights were off except for two lamps at both ends of the room. The silence was spooky—just the sound of breathing, and the crackle of the fire, and the scratch of Nurse Able's pen. Radar cocked his head slightly as he heard something else: urgent talking muffled so he could just hear the noise of it. He followed it, made his way to the scrub room, and hung back behind the curtain. Hawkeye and B.J were arguing heatedly.

"Damn it, B.J, Colonel Lacey is killing young boys! Children! You've got a kid, Beej—I thought you'd understand."

"That doesn't make what _you're_ doing right."

"I'm trying to keep more kids from dying out there. That seems right to me. If you can't agree—get out of here. Because I'm doing it whether you approve or not."

"Cutting into a healthy body is _mutilation_."

"Don't give me that. Unnecessary operations happen every day back home—and why? Because the doctors want a few bucks! I'm trying to save lives, by a _simple appendectomy_**."**

"Some things are wrong, and they're _always_ wrong. You're going to hate yourself for the rest of your life."

"I hate myself right now. I hate me, and I hate you, and I hate this whole life here!"

"Fine. Do it. Carve into him!"

B.J spun around and stormed out. Hawkeye was left alone in the scrub room. He hit the tap over the tub and scrubbed furiously at his hands, washing them with almost obsessive compulsion. Radar peeked behind the curtain and watched him enter the OR.

* * *

_Benjamin Franklin Pierce is a good surgeon._

Hawkeye prepared his instruments and set them in a neat row. He stared at Colonel Lacey's bare abdomen, and tried to imagine the scar he was going to inflict. He picked up the scalpel.

_Benjamin Franklin Pierce is a compassionate doctor._

He put down the scalpel and felt Lacey's abdomen with his gloved hand. He mapped out Lacey's internal organs in his mind, trying to pin point exactly where his appendix was. He hesitated, and picked up the scalpel again.

_Benjamin Franklin Pierce is a dedicated physician. _

His hands were shaking. Horrified, he tried taking quick and deep breaths, but his hand would not assume its usual rock-like steadiness.

He looked at Colonel Lacey's face. He steeled himself to see evil.

The man was careless with life! Hawkeye would never again have such a complete nemesis. Lacey was getting young men killed. Young baby-faced boys with freckles and acne and peace-fuzz and such slender, delicate shoulders burdened with heavy gear.

"No, no," Hawkeye whispered to him. "No more shining potential laid to waste. No more innocent kids are going to die for your twisted glory. Those kids, those beautiful, wide-eyed children…they're not going to end up maimed, or blinded, or on crutches, or depressed and wounded in their souls—not one more kid is going to face shellfire scared to death because of _you_."

The scalpel met flesh. He began to cut.

_Benjamin Franklin Pierce is a good man. _

He could not quell the shaking of his hands.

* * *

Radar was sitting on a bench in the change room when Hawkeye stumbled in. Hawkeye stopped dead and stared at him with empty eyes, as if he didn't recognize him. Then he snapped to his senses with a jerk of his hands—he clasped them behind his back, as if hiding incriminating evidence.

"Hi, there, Radar," he said with a false grin. "Is the stuffing coming out of your teddy bear again?"

Radar ignored him and stood up. "Hawkeye, did Colonel Lacey really have appendicitis?"

Hawkeye froze stiff. "What? What? How could you ask me that, Radar? What do you think I am? Of _course_ he had appendicitis! One clue would be the fact that I've just removed his appendix. What's the matter with you?"

"Don't yell at _me_ because you feel bad about it."

"What? Radar, that Colonel was seriously ill. I don't believe this—you think I'd…I'd…"

"I heard you and B.J talking about it."

Hawkeye just blinked. Then he paced back and forth in the small room, tearing off his surgical whites at the same time. "I did what I think is right, _period_. I don't need your moral opinions."

"Why did you lie to me?"

"Why? _Why_?"

"Yeah, if you think this is so right, why did you lie about it? You've never lied to me before! I thought I could trust you. I'm not a doctor, Hawkeye, I don't know whether it was right or not—"

"Damn right you don't!"

"But when you cut out Colonel Lacey's appendix, you cut out a piece of yourself, too."

"What do you want from me! Don't you get it?" His voice was breaking with desperation. "I couldn't let him keep sending us his boys in pieces, Radar! Kids were dying just because he had an overproduction of testosterone! There's enough destruction and horror in this place without a jackass like _him_ walking around!"

"You're tearing yourself apart, Hawkeye."

Hawkeye stopped. He sighed as if breathing all his energy out of his body. "I'm going to go get drunk."

Radar paced a little, too. He didn't want to tell him. "You can't."

Hawk shook his head, all too aware of the reason, the frustrating reminder of the never-ending war. "You hear them again," he said flatly, referring to the choppers.

"Not yet. But they're coming. It's not official."

"You're never wrong," Hawkeye mumbled. "And if I know B.J, he's trying to get drunk right now, too."

"I better tell him."

"No. I'll do it. Now get out of here."

* * *

Hawkeye slowly walked into the swamp and sat down heavily on his cot. B.J was turned away from him, drinking a martini. The gloom was thick and suffocating.

"Well?" B.J said.

"It was pink and perfect and I tossed it in the scrap bucket. And we were both right: I'll hate myself for the rest of my life, and I still think it was the right thing to do."

B.J rubbed his eyes. "Want a drink?"

"Thanks." He took the proffered glass from B.J's hand, knowing it was a peace offering of sorts. He downed it, then got to business. "We're getting wounded, Beej. I'm afraid we'll have to keep our heads clear."

"I couldn't get drunk anyway. Something in the air."

"**INCOMING! ALL PERSONNEL, GRAB YOUR SOCKS! LOOKS KINDA HEAVY."**

* * *

Colonel Potter stared out the OR window. There were flashes in the distance, and the rumblings of shellfire were definitely coming closer. The wounded who could talk all said the same thing—the enemy was gaining ground, and the front was being pushed back. Toward Ouijuanbu. There were still twenty casualties waiting for surgery, and there were no less than nine boys who could not be moved from Post-Op under any circumstances.

"Sir? It's General Clayton again. He's very insistent that we bug out, sir," Radar said.

"Suction," Potter barked to the nurse. "Radar, tell General Clayton that we aren't going anywhere. No…wait just a minute, son." Potter looked up at the other doctors and nurses in the room. "The war is on its way up here. I think we're about to get very chummy with the enemy. So…the nurses are going to have to be evacuated, along with any wounded who can stand the trip. The rest of us will have to wait it out. Radar, get on the phone. Any nurse who isn't at a table right now—go help the wounded onto the bus."

"Sir, we can't leave now—there's still two dozen casualties out there!" Margaret cried.

Potter scowled impatiently. "If it wasn't for this deluge, we would have bugged out ten hours ago, Major! This is no time to argue!"

"Margaret, would you quit your foot-stomping long enough to help me save this kid's arm?" Hawkeye said savagely, the exhaustion and stress overwhelming him.

"Wait a minute, Pierce," Potter interrupted. "I saw that boy's arm. It's pretty bad."

"I can do it, Colonel."

"You probably could, if we had two or three hours to spare. But we don't, Pierce."

Hawkeye glared at him. "Colonel…"

"It's time to get practical, son. That's an order."

Hawkeye looked down at his patient and nodded vaguely. "Under orders. That won't be much of a comfort when this kid asks me why I took his arm."

B.J stripped off his gloves. "We're just saving lives tonight, Hawk. I'm finished here, Klinger, send in the next one."

"Colonel!" Nurse Kellye cried, running into the OR. "It's Colonel Lacey. He's dead, sir."

"What?" Colonel Potter shouted. "Pierce, you got to him in time, didn't you? An appendectomy is routine stuff."

Hawkeye didn't answer. The blood drained away from his face, leaving him pale grey and sick. He faltered before his patient and dropped the saw on the floor.

"Pierce?" Charles called.

Hawkeye backed away from the table and stumbled outside.

"Damn it, I want him back in here!" Potter ordered.

"I'll go talk to him," B.J volunteered, already halfway out the door.

"Bring him back! I realize Lacey was his patient, but we just don't have time for this. We'll figure out what happened later."

"Nurse," Charles said, "how did he die?"

"He had been conscious for about three hours and was resting comfortably. Then he saw that some of the new wounded were from his battalion, and he tried to get up, and he just collapsed." Tears began to run down Nurse Kellye's face. "We were busy, we were making bunks for the overflow of casualties…he seemed fine, so we…we weren't watching him very closely, sir. There were so many others…we thought an appendectomy wouldn't…I mean, Dr. Pierce said the operation went well, so…"

"No one's blaming anyone," Colonel Potter said gently. "Why don't you go back and assist with the evacuation."

* * *

B.J found Hawkeye retching the minimal contents of his stomach onto the dirt. B.J sighed and went to him, supporting him until he was finished.

"God," Hawkeye gasped. He tore off his gloves and spat, running a hand through his hair.

"Potter wants you back," B.J said.

"My hands were shaking," Hawkeye rasped. "My hands were shaking. I must have nicked his appendix. Damn thing's full of poison! Or maybe I hit the small intestine."

"Are you okay to operate?"

Hawkeye wiped at his eyes and smeared tears over his face. "Damn it."

"We need you, Hawkeye."

"I know."

"It was an accident, Hawkeye. Come on. You have to scrub up again."

Hawkeye shook his head helplessly, despairing. "B.J….I'll be hanged!" Hawkeye croaked through the painful lump in his throat.

B.J didn't know what to do, or what to say. Hawkeye was his best friend, despite their moral argument last night, and he knew Hawk had acted out of dedication to the sanctity of life. If Hawkeye was responsible for Lacey's death, it was a terrible accident—but to the eyes of the Military, it was certainly murder.

"They won't know," B.J began softly, "that Lacey didn't have appendicitis."

A shell screamed within a mile of the camp. Hawkeye buried his head in his hands and his body tensed as it was slammed with fierce emotional tides. His shoulders shook. "I can't do this."

"It'll be all right. I'll be there." B.J bit his lip, hearing Hawkeye's breath come in gasping sobs. He would have to get stern with him, just so he could function—a trick Colonel Potter often used. "Hawkeye. There's no sense in letting anyone else find out about this. We have to go back in there. Take a couple deep breaths. Those wounded boys are depending on you to put them back together. And this is just the first wave. In another few hours we're going to get a whole new batch. You hear those shells? They're coming closer, and soon we're going to be up to our necks in blood and this camp's going to turn into a battlefield."

B.J helped Hawkeye to his feet and led him inside.

* * *

Four hours after the nurses and wounded were evacuated, the surgeons finally finished. Colonel Potter sat in his office with Radar as the shells began to pound harder and closer.

"Would you like a drink, Radar?" Potter asked, pouring whiskey into shot glasses.

Radar jumped slightly at the battle noise. "Sir, shouldn't we sandbag the Post Op and have everyone stay in there? It's getting kinda dangerous out."

"That can wait, son. We just got out of the OR, we need a little down time to keep us going. Besides, we have some time yet. Let me show you something, son. Come over here by the window." Radar obeyed and Potter put an arm around his shoulders. "Watch for the next shellfire, all right? There! Did you see that? Which came first, the light or the noise?"

"I saw the flash before I heard it."

"Right. That's because light travels faster than sound. They're actually happening at the same time, but we're far enough away that it's taking the noise a bit of time to get here. When we see it and hear it at the same time, then we'll start worrying about it, okay?"

"Yes sir, Colonel."

"Atta boy."

"Sir, can I ask you about Colonel Lacey?"

"Are you worried about Pierce?"

"Yeah."

"We sent the Colonel's body on a special evacuation vehicle to Seoul, under General Clayton's orders. When it's something like this, the Army wants an authorized pathologist to do the autopsy. The death of a Colonel, under these circumstances, is pretty important stuff. When they get their report together I'm sure we'll be the first to know what happened."

"But…what do you think will happen to Captain Pierce?"

"If Pierce missed something or made an error, the army or Lacey's family might want to press charges. He'd be Court Martialed, but given the pressure we're all under I imagine he'd get off with a warning."

"Sir…what if Hawkeye shouldn't have operated at all?"

"What?"

"What if Colonel Lacey didn't have appendicitis? I mean… SIR, GET DOWN!" Radar screamed. He pulled the Colonel to the floor.

"What's the matter, son!"

"Wait for it!"

Then, an explosion blew out the window and rocked the office into chaotic disarray. Gunfire began to pierce the air.

"Sweet Jesus! An enemy troop must have gotten through the line! Stay down, son!"

"Sir—I think some of the tents are on fire!"

"Stay put!"

"But—sir, _my animals_! Oh, _no_!"

Radar scrambled toward the door, but Potter grabbed his ankle and pulled him under the desk. "You can't go out there, son."

"Sir—sir, what about _Sophie_?" Bullets sprayed the opposite wall from through the window. "Oh my God! Sir!" Radar yelled, almost wailing.

"Sophie went with the nurses," the Colonel replied with a thick, wavering voice. There were shouts outside, yelling and shellfire and bullets and the roar of flames. He held the terrified corporal protectively.

"I'm sorry, Radar, I didn't think to tell them to take your zoo. Shhh. We don't want to attract attention, son, we're under attack."

* * *

"B.J? Beej, where are you?" Hawkeye yelled through black smoke that burned his throat and lungs. The roof of the Swamp had caught fire.

"Hawkeye?" B.J yelled back. They collided with one another and both grabbed onto the other's arms.

"Where's Charles?"

"I can't see anything!"

They succumbed to coughing. The heat and the smoke and the thunder of shells were utterly disorienting, and physically debilitating. Hawkeye stumbled, knocking into the stove as he tried to find the door. "Damn it, can't they see the big red cross! Charles? Charles, where are you?"

Someone grabbed his arm. "Pierce, I suggest we get of this raging inferno right now! I have no wish to experience Dante first hand!"

They made it outside, and fell into a foxhole the enlisted men had begun to dig. Behind them, three other tents were smouldering. They did not burn well, being somewhat fire resistant (for once, an intelligent army precaution!), but produced thick, black, toxic smoke.

"Is everyone all right?" B.J asked.

"I think so. Charles?"

"I am alive, Pierce, and would very much like to stay that way. There appears to be a troop by the road—" Charles paused to cough painfully, "—North Koreans!"

"I wish I was a nurse," Hawkeye groaned.

"Yes, perhaps Klinger had the right idea all along," Charles replied, keeping an iron grip on Hawkeye's forearm.

"Maybe they're just trying to cut down on transportation costs. Maim everyone in the hospital parking lot," B.J mused.

Rapid, chaotic gunfire erupted suddenly as American soldiers burst from the trees. A battle was playing out before the surgeons' very eyes as grenades and shells and bullets did their destructive work to spill hot red blood. Wounded boys fell hard, some dead instantly, others screaming in English or Korean. One boy slithered with his leg trailing lifelessly behind him, pulling himself with his arms across the dirt road. When he got close enough, the doctors grabbed him and laid him down in the foxhole.

"My _leg_!" he howled. "They shot off my bloody leg!"

They worked with lightning speed, though they had nothing but their shirts for bandages, and no morphine to soothe the boy's glassy-eyed, moaning pain. Thankfully for the soldier, he fell unconscious.

"Shock. He's almost comatose," Hawkeye reported.

"Pulse weak and abnormal. Damn. Substantial blood loss," B.J added.

"He'll lose the leg," Charles said, "and we'll lose _him_ if we can't stabilize him."

Hawkeye looked grimly at the dangerous route to the OR. "I've got to get him in there. He's a small kid, I could probably carry him."

"Hawk, don't even think it! The air is full of bullets!"

"I can't lose him!"

"Pierce, this isn't your fault. You're not the one who got him wounded," Charles told him urgently.

"No, I just killed Colonel Lacey."

The American soldiers outnumbered the enemy now, as they killed off North Koreans with a sick kind of efficiency. Then a dark mass of moving forms emerged from the forest on the east side and spilled out into the minefield. A landmine went off almost immediately, illuminating the field in a red flash and revealed the dirty, frightened faces of ragged North Korean guerrillas. They panicked and ran, setting off a rapid fire of explosions. Most didn't make it across the field. Those that did were shot down by Americans on the other side.

Planes from the North burst through the cloud of smoke and dropped bombs over roads that led to the front, cutting off the South Korean supply line. Then, five American tanks from the front lines burst into the camp, followed by hordes of soldiers, bleeding and muddy. They retreated onto the hill at the helicopter pad, then stood ready to defend their new position. A giant anti-aircraft missile lumbered up alongside the tanks and took aim at the sky. The soldiers hastily erected sandbag forts as bullets and shells continued to hit their comrades.

"We're not a MASH anymore, we're an Aid Station," Charles whispered.

"Welcome to the Front," B.J replied.

"Come on! Let's get this kid to the OR!"

They gathered the boy in their arms and climbed carefully out of the foxhole. Under the thunder of planes and shellfire they ran, bursting through the hospital doors, and laid the boy on a gurney. There were sandbags piled everywhere, which provided a false sense of security, but the place was cold and dark and there were holes in the walls.

"We did it," Pierce said, exhaling hard. The three of them shook hands affectionately.

"You had us worried sick, boys," Colonel Potter said somberly. "Everyone's in Post Op. I tell you, with all those wounded, there isn't much room. And it looks like we're going to get a whole lot more."

"This kid's real shocky, Colonel—Beej, get me uh, three units of O- blood."

"Pierce, we can't spare that much. We have to conserve all our supplies—especially blood and time," Potter reminded him.

Hawkeye picked up a basin and threw it as hard as he could at the wall. "It's not _fair_!"

"Scrub up, Pierce!" Colonel Potter responded sharply.

Shortly after Hawkeye hit the sink, the doors flew open again. A gasping medic was carrying a badly bleeding soldier in his arms, yelling for help. Charles and Colonel Potter got him on a gurney and began assessing the damage while the medic talked with nervous speed.

"We just got _clobbered_ out there—I tell you, when we got the call to retreat, we really ran. You guys shoulda bugged out, you know, you're right in the middle of it, right in the middle of it. This here, this is it. Oh, boy. There's lots of kids out there, I don't know how many I can bring back here….most are dead, I guess…there's about five other medics trying to make the trip without getting killed… " he was swaying back and forth, wringing his hands, and ducking his head a little with the fierce noise. He was left there as Charles and Potter scrubbed and rushed to save the dying soldier.

Father Mulcahy found the medic standing there a few minutes later. He touched his shoulder gently.

"Our generators are out, my son, but it's fairly cozy in Post Op. Why don't you come with me?"

The medic turned to him and shook his head. "I…can't. You know? I have to go back out and try to help, and if it's God's will I'll die out there. I don't want to go, Father, I'm scared, but they need me. My buddies are dying."

* * *

They worked with flashlights. Radar, Klinger, Father Mulcahy and Igor were working as OR nurses, handing instruments and other necessities as best as they could to the frantic surgeons. Rizzo, Zale and six other enlisted men held the lights and rushed around for towels and gloves. That left the medics to carry in the wounded, and almost no one to attend to the growing number of Post Op patients. There simply were not enough bunks for the flood of unconscious men.

"Somebody turn down the volume on the war," Hawkeye said hoarsely. "If that missile launcher ever actually _hits_ one of those planes, I'm going to jump outta my boots and send my scalpel flying back to the States."

"Father, hold that back for me. Hold it back!" Charles snarled. He pressed his fingers to the underside of the soldier's jaw. "Damn it. I've lost him. All right, call in the next one. Father—I hope you understand I wasn't yelling at _you_."

"No explanations needed, Major."

B.J stepped back as a new patient was wheeled in. "Igor! Gown and gloves!"

"We're out, sir!"

"Then set up basins of alcohol," B.J ordered angrily.

"Radar, why don't you tell us a story about your Uncle Ed?" Potter asked quietly.

"Should I, sir? I mean, isn't this a bad time?"

"Son, this is the best time there will ever be. Hmmm, I need a clamp, Radar. No, no, the one by your thumb."

"Oh, good Lord. Hawk?" B.J called.

"What is it?"

"This kid…both legs, and his right arm. I'm going to take three of his limbs."

"Oh, God…" But there was nothing Hawk could say. A screaming shell said it for him, hitting just outside the OR wall.

B.J ducked and covered his patient as dust rained from the roof. "How about that story, Radar?"

* * *

To Be Continued… reviews are very welcome and would encourage me. 


	2. Chapter 2

When Radar opened the door from the Post-Op, a cold wet wind met him in the face. The compound had been silent for nearly ten minutes now, after the enemy retreated to the West and the last shudders of shellfire and gunshots died out. But it was not a peaceful stillness, it was silence full of tension, as if every shadow and every trench concealed a desperate sniper. As Radar looked out the last gleam of twilight gave way to darkness. He squinted, watching two corpsmen approach a dark shape on the ground, like a heap of sandbags. They stooped and hoisted it onto a litter---a body.

Radar shook himself; the flow of wounded to the camp may have stopped, but there was a lot of work to do. It was better to keep moving than to stay still too long, like the way his Uncle Ed always said that thinking too much wasn't good for anyone. Radar used to think that Uncle Ed only said that because he quit school at grade six, but now he understood.

He didn't want to think. Thinking just brought him the certainty that something terrible was going to happen.

He hurried out, mindful of debris and craters where shells had torn the ground. Colonel Potter would want a report on the state of repairs---or disrepair, as the case may be, and the whole camp was a mess; he passed the supply tent and saw the door was skewed open and white boxes of bandages and medicine littered the ground. But the Colonel would understand if he needed to check on his animals first.

He knew something was wrong before he even got to the quiet corner where he'd set up his cages. Feeling sick to his stomach he hurried to the shadowed rubble where his cages were once stacked.

"Oh no," he breathed.

The cages had all toppled over. He knelt down and saw that his two rabbits and his mouse Daisy were okay, but beside them were three empty cages, the wire and wood frames having split open. "Oh no," he said again. He looked around, but his missing animals had probably been loose for hours.

"Buster? Here Buster..." He searched along the ground for a minute, but he knew it was a long shot. _Where would I go if I were a baby raccoon?_ The Swamp, he decided. Little animals were probably living there already.

The Swamp was in bad shape, the roof of the tent was sagging and burnt and probably in pieces. He pushed open the charred door and fumbled his way through in the dark, an uneasy sense of dread building in his chest.

"Rita?" he called to his pet chipmunk.

Then his foot caught on something and he fell forward, slamming against a post and a loud crack pierced the air. He hit the floor and debris rained on him, pieces of tent and wood crashing down all around him. He lay there, unhurt but dazed, hearing shouting outside as if from very far away.

"The Swamp's collapsed!"

"Radar's in there!" That was Klinger's voice, Radar recognized sluggishly. He found himself thinking of how time seemed to stop when a shell hit in the compound, how falling dust and debris seemed to take hours to drift down.

There was shuffling and movement around him as men lifted beams and tarp, and then Radar felt something lifted off his back.

"Radar! Are you okay? You hurt anywhere?" Klinger helped him sit up and checked him over.

"I'm okay..." he rubbed dirt and ash from his face and realized his glasses were missing, and began to scrounge around for them.

"You sure you're all right?"

"Yeah, I think so…" He had a knack for finding his glasses from amongst a clutter of junk in the dark, it was a skill from his childhood. His hand closed around the wire frame and he pulled them out from under a cot. They were bent and both lenses were shattered, but he put them on anyway. Klinger helped him as he stood and took a few clumsy steps. He felt that uneasy feeling of _waiting_ in his chest again.

"Hey Klinger...listen...I think we're going to get more wounded or something, you know? I've got to tell to the Colonel..."

"I think you'd better go lie down for a while," Klinger said. Radar didn't seem to notice that his glasses were at a ridiculous angle across his eyes.

"No, I got to go talk to the Colonel. Listen, will you make sure someone cleans up the supply tent? We haven't got much left…"

"I'll take care of it, don't worry. Go on."

Radar stumbled out of the Swamp---or what was left of the Swamp---and nearly bumped into Colonel Potter who was rushing over from the morgue truck. Radar squinted at him.

"Radar, are you all right? I was signing off Lacey's body, I heard the Swamp collapsed on you."

"Oh yes, I'm fine sir. But..." He rubbed at his dirt-smudged face again, wondering how to explain to the Colonel the dread he felt, a warning sign as certain as storm clouds. "I've been thinking, sir, you know...maybe the fighting's going to come back our way, so maybe we shouldn't send for the nurses to come back or anything."

"Well, HQ says the coast is clear, Radar. Why don't you go inside and get some rest? Nearly being buried alive would make anyone a little jumpy. Can you see okay without your glasses?"

"My glasses, sir?"

Colonel Potter gently took Radar's glasses from his face and showed him the broken lenses. "You'll have to requisition a new pair."

"Oh," Radar replied numbly, and shivered in cold wind.

* * *

Hawkeye sat alone in Pre-Op. He'd just finished his last surgery and Potter had said that no more wounded were expected. It was done, he was finished. He leaned forward, staring at the surgical mask in his hands. There was a bitter taste in his mouth, a burning in his eyes, and his back ached worse than he could remember, but still he twisted the strings of his mask around his fingers until they hurt, as if he could heal guilt through pain.

What the hell was he going to do now?

Colonel Potter came in quietly, standing before Hawkeye as though in thought.

"We need to talk, don't we," Hawkeye said in a low, dead voice. He didn't trust himself to look up; Potter's boots shifted as the Colonel stripped off his bloodied shirt.

"I'd say so. Are you up to it?"

Hawkeye sighed and couldn't form an answer except to lob his mask across the room. Just then Charles stumbled in from the OR and the mask nearly hit him before it dropped neatly into the laundry sack. But Charles was apparently too tired to notice, pulling off his gown with a disgusted grunt.

"Let's go to my office, son," Potter said and still Hawkeye couldn't look at him, but followed with his head bowed.

Ever since he was a boy and his father sat him down for a serious-sounding talk, Hawkeye always made sure he was the first to speak. It delayed the inevitable, and maybe shifted the balance of power just one iota in his direction. He'd done the same thing when his father was about to tell him that his mother died.

"I want to look at the body," he said.

"Lacey's been shipped out already. HQ wants one of its own surgical brass to do the autopsy. But don't start looking for another job; you're a good surgeon, I'd testify to that, and so would anyone who's come through this camp. Personally, I think he had some secondary condition that no one knew about, and listen Pierce, you simply couldn't have known."

_A good surgeon_. The words pained him, an ache in his empty belly and a hollow feeling where his rage and indignation used to be. He sat down in front of the Colonel's desk and put his head in his hands.

"You're taking this pretty hard, son. I prescribe rest. This thing will be worked out before you know it."

Potter touched him on the shoulder and made to leave, and Hawkeye murmured, "Do you think the cook can bake me a cake with a saw in it?"

"You won't need it." The Colonel pushed the door open and Hawkeye heard him say quietly, "Not unless you know something I don't."

Moments passed in silence as Hawkeye sat alone, a few desperate thoughts running a maddening loop in his head. When the office door opened again, it was BJ who slipped inside.

"The Mess is low on supplies, so I got us some canned delicacies." He held out a tin of pork and beans, which Hawkeye barely glanced at. BJ put it down beside him, sat on the edge of the Colonel's desk, and dug into his own canned dinner.

"Don't snub my cooking, Hawk. I might get sore at you."

Hawkeye sighed grievously. "I'm surprised you can even stand to look at me."

"I never hold grudges. It takes too much effort."

"Beej," Hawk finally said quietly, not looking up, "I've never hated anyone as much as I hate myself right now."

He was shaking his head, one hand pressing hard against his eyes, and BJ was unsurprised to see the final tremor break across his shoulders. It was a silent sob he'd become accustomed to in Korea, like distant shellfire in the dead of night.

BJ put down his tin and fork and, without a word, put his hand on his friend's back. Hawkeye sniffled, a few silent tears escaping, clenching his hands hard enough to hurt. He seemed to be forcing himself into stillness, forcing back the tears and the scream that was lodged painfully in his throat.

When the trembling stilled BJ squeezed his shoulder and said simply, "Come on, Hawk. Let's go check on the Swamp."

* * *

"I don't know how safe it is in there, Major," Klinger said, ducking as Zale tossed a section of burnt wood out of the Swamp.

Charles, standing in the glare of jeep headlights, waved his hand dismissively. "Really, Corporal, do you think I am a man so concerned with my own safety that--"

"Is that Charles' voice I hear? It can't be," BJ said, walking up to the Swamp.

"I've never seen him be so courageous," Hawkeye replied. "I wonder what's at stake."

"Very funny, gentlemen, now if you'll excuse me…" He ducked through the singed doorframe and started hunting around his cot. "Ah ha!" he exclaimed and appeared again with his red pillow and bed linens, dirty, but apparently undamaged.

BJ burst out laughing. "Charles Emerson Winchester III, heroic fetcher of blankets."

"What's it like in there, Charles?"

"Filthy, deplorable, squalid…"

Hawkeye smiled. "Ah, home sweet home." He went in to see for himself, followed closely by BJ, and Charles put his bedclothes safely on the jeep and joined them as well. Inside, the fire damage was mostly limited to the wooden frame; Charles' bookshelf and nightstand were badly blackened, as was the table upon which the still had stood. The still itself was in too many pieces to count. The glass beakers had shattered and bits of tubing were scattered on the floor.

BJ busied himself making sure his footlocker, where he kept letters from home, had escaped unharmed. Hawkeye tossed a bit of glass haphazardly on the floor.

"What a waste."

Then he picked his way to his cot and found it lying on its side. He uprighted it, brushed off the worst of the ash and debris and sat down heavily. Meanwhile Charles was rooting through his own footlocker, and pulled out a bottle of cognac.

"Gentlemen, I realize your palates are accustomed to drinking swill, but perhaps on a night like this, some cognac would not go amiss." And he proceeded to pour out a good measure of his prized drink into three glasses.

"Thanks, Charles," Hawkeye said, and they raised their glasses for a silent moment, with no fitting toast for the occasion.

Hawkeye drank, hearing a soft patter of rain begin to fall on the compound. Soon it hastened to a torrent and drenched the roofless Swamp, and Hawkeye thought it was oddly refreshing, as if he'd like to stand there all night, getting soaked to the bone and not caring about a damn thing.

* * *

BJ opened sleep-bleary eyes in the middle of the night, vaguely wondering if it were morning already. He turned over, decided it was still far from dawn, and nearly gave himself back to sleep when he realized that Hawkeye wasn't in his cot. It was probably nothing, but on this night of nights he knew he wouldn't be able to sleep unless he checked on his bunkie. He got up, sardonically wondering how he'd ever manage to sleep when he got to back to San Francisco.

He wandered into Post-Op, which was dimly lit and quiet but for one soldier's murmuring to Father Mulcahy, who appeared to be asleep, sitting up beside him. Mulcahy was supposed to be filling in the night shift nursing duty but a quick scan of the room showed all was in order.

Next he went through Radar's office, noting Radar sleeping with his blankets tangled all around him and hanging half off the cot, as if he were having a restless night. BJ moved on to Potter's office, seeing a light was lit within. Hawkeye was sitting at the Colonel's desk, writing.

"Can't sleep?" BJ asked by way of greeting.

"I've forgotten how."

"What are you writing?"

Hawkeye turned the paper so BJ could see it. _Dear Dad_ was written at the top. "My last letter as a free man."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm turning myself in."

* * *

To Be Continued! Reviews are very welcome. Thank you to everyone who took the time to review! 


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